just get over his women obsessed pride and tell Hadenfeldt what he fucking wanted from him. Even if the colonel didn’t feel the same (which Ty doubted) it would clear the air between them and they could all act normally again. Or as normal as army life around guys could be. For all that he cared the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy could go and fuck itself, because when it came to a guy covering his back or saving his life he couldn’t care less which way he swung. All that counted was a steady aim and cool head on their shoulders. And that they didn’t hit on him, because he liked women, thank you very much.
It was such a pity that most of the dickheads here didn’t quite see it that way. They freaked at the first sign of gayness, even if this came from frustration and not natural inclination. How they managed to survive in close quarters was a mystery to him.
In his opinion they had it way better than he did because unlike them he shared a tent with John McLendon. The guy was merely bearable on good days, which meant that he got more on Ty’s nerves than not. He also had a propensity for coming too close, especially at night when it was freaking cold in the desert. It was enough to drive a ranger to distraction, really. He didn’t need any other shit on top of that. He couldn’t imagine any other guy doing foolish things like that. And yet he hoped that the government would do something about this unbearable situation, and soon.
“We should call it a night,” Hadenfeldt said and pulled Ty out of his musings. “We need to be well rested, understood?”
They all murmured their assent and quickly packed their things away. Ty took his time dousing the fire. Pascuzzo and Hadenfeldt worked together effortlessly, never once falling out of the choreography that only they understood. It bespoke the time they had spent together, the trust they shared as comrades in arms and as friends.
“Aw, hell,” he grumbled and finally stood up.
“What’s up, Ty?” McLendon fell into step beside him and grinned. “Don’t like being all cuddly with the Bossman and Fabio?”
“Not my cup of tea,” Ty growled. Somehow it came as no surprise that McLendon knew exactly what was going on. The fool was crazy, not blind or deaf or stupid. Otherwise he wouldn’t have made it to a freaking captain.
“I wish they would drink theirs,” McLendon commented idly. He stretched both arms out and made a wheeee-sound. “Hades is no coward, but in this …”
“Would make things awkward for a while,” Black agreed. “But it’s better than this waiting for them to get it.”
McLendon chuckled. “Wheee! Say, Ty, can I come cuddling tonight? It’s getting mighty cold, big guy.”
“No, man, why don’t you get a space heater?”
“I have you,” McLendon shrugged. “Besides, the anti-fag-brigades are hogging them. Selfish bastards.”
Despite himself, Ty had to laugh. “Yeah.”
“So, can I?”
“Only if it’s below ten degrees.”
McLendon beamed.
“And no funny stuff, you hear me? I ain’t Pascuzzo or Hades.”
“Aw, cool down, big guy. There’s no funny stuff between them. Just lurrrve!” Grinning, McLendon formed a heart with his fingers. “There’s a difference, you know.”
“Not between those two, there isn’t,” Ty grumbled.
They made it into their tent undisturbed, and as the thermometer fell below minus ten degrees Ty only put up a minimal fuss when McLendon came over to share blankets and body heat. There were worse things in the world.
He could have an unbidden erection with the fool pilot’s muscular body pressed to his back. Thankfully he wasn’t that far gone.
Yet.
END
+ o + o +
Excerpt from “Perplexity”
Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea to give McLendon self-made cookie forms for his birthday after all. The Ace pilot derived entirely too much pleasure from making his team mates help in their small camp kitchen, ordering them about as if he were the colonel instead of Hades.
Hadenfeldt for his part apparently found McLendon’s bossiness entertaining, just like his new cookie forms.
“I didn’t know you had such a soft spot for our pilot, Ty,” he smirked. “Planes, really? And grenades? Sweet.”
“Shove off, boss man. Shipping didn’t make it in time and you know how that idiot gets if we ignore ‘special days’.”
“Those are important,” the pilot insisted. “And I’ll have you know that it made me very happy that I didn’t have to resort to tears and screams this year. A guy has to watch his reputation, you know.”
The other three men glanced at each other, remembering the awful show from last year in vivid, unpleasant detail.
“Yeah, well, how many more planes do you need anyway, Crackpot?” Ty grumbled after forcing the embarrassing blush from his pale face. “If I’d known that you’d raise such a fuss-“
“Just one more charge, big guy. My buddies want some too,” McLendon beamed. “Oi, Fabs, why did ya stop with the knives? We need the knives!”
Pascuzzo took a long drink from his wine glass and sighed. His cheeks still looked red - by now rather wine-induced than due to mortification - which was quite an accomplishment with his perpetually tanned skin. He swayed slowly to Dean Martin’s Mambo Italiano that blared out of their field radio. “Piano piano, my friend. Good things need time.”
Hadenfeldt chuckled. “Shouldn’t drinking wine be among those things? Honestly, slow down, Fabs, or else you won’t cut any more cookies tonight.”
“The hell I will.” Pascuzzo emptied the glass and refilled it immediately. “This stuff tastes like used dishwater. Disgusting. If I don’t swallow this swill quickly it’ll come right back up. That teaches me to trust Black to get a good bottle.”
Ty threw him an annoyed look. “Next time do it yourself, if beer doesn’t cut it, your highness.”
Pascuzzo smiled lazily. “Don’t I ever?”
“Don’t get cocky, boy.” Hadenfeldt snatched the glass from Pascuzzo’s hand and took a hearty sip. “Bah, this is really disgusting. Wherever did you get that, Ty?”
“Blockhead recommended it,” he replied, scowling at the plane form in his huge hand. “Shoulda known that he was bein’ too nice.”
“Ah, don’t worry. We won’t waste a single drop.” Pascuzzo’s already heartbreaking smile became positively devastating. “After all, I’ve got to celebrate la mia separazione, no? At least il vino matches my emozione.”
“Yeah, whatever, but I won’ drag you back to your tent tonight, Italo boy.”
“You’re just jealous of my exotic origins,” Pascuzzo smirked impishly. “And my accent.”
“Dream on, spaghetti eater. See if I help you if you choke on your sick.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll take care of that.” Hadenfeldt’s eyes raked over Pascuzzo’s slightly swaying body before returning to the cookie cutting. “Since we’re tent mates and all.”
[…]
+ o + o +
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Facebook / Maria Santicelli
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